Vig·i·lan·te
by karrma-queen
Summary: The Hood wasn't the first vigilante Starling City met, however, he was the first to get recognized for his efforts to clean the city. She goes by Shadow, hiding in the Glades and protecting those who cannot protect themselves. When Oliver Queen returns to his city with his promise, how will he respond with another threat? A threat he cannot touch as it moves in the darkness? S1& on


• part one || shadow lurks •

• **The beginnings and ends of shadow lie between the light and darkness and may be infinitely diminished and infinitely increased. Shadow is the means by which bodies display their form. The forms of bodies could not be understood in detail but for shadow.** •

* * *

 _one_.

 **It has been three years. One hundred, fifty-six weeks.**

The girl stood on the uninhabited, dim sidewalk. Her dark hair was whipping around her sunken, pale face, motivated by the light wind. The glimpse of her blue eyes revealed that they were void of emotion, that they were guarded and cold.

Starling City beamed down on her from afar, the optimistic lights that twinkled with the night life and the people who enjoying their time without a care in the world. The view would have been almost captivating, if it wasn't for the destruction that was around her. She was standing in the purgatory of this city, also nicknamed the Glades. Where the underprivileged, the addicted and the wicked go to live out whatever life fate had deemed for themselves.

The girl cocked her head, hearing a faint scream coming from behind her. The voice was fragile and was distinctly female. This was closely followed by the sounds of breaking glass.

Under her combat boots, the concrete was cracked, foliage spilling out from the crooked seams. The houses she faced had boarded up windows and graffiti covering whatever was left of the once family-home. Resonances of rap music came from one of the neighboring houses and the feeble scent of marijuana spilled towards her.

The shadowed girl was surrounded by homicide, vandalism and rape, almost suffocating her with the malevolence of this place. Most people would have run from this place, their tails tucked between their legs. Nevertheless, this girl was not like most. She almost strived for this life, where she flourished, where she was learning to not only defend herself, but those around her. She was protecting the ones who needed protected.

Not that anyone knew that she existed. At a first glance, the girl almost blended perfectly into the darkness, becoming one with the shadows. Almost as if she was not there. She was the Shadow, protector of the. Most of the ones who had met her would never be able to utter her name, earning her the whispered call from the scum. She was an urban legend, spread around. The thieves who would converse in an abandoned warehouse, alleged, "What if the Shadow comes?"

This would be responded with guffaws and jeers of their stupidity. "The Shadow doesn't exist! She's made up. To scare the weak, which is fine with me, because that's more for me."

This is how she liked it. She didn't need the appraisal that came from people knowing she lived among them. She wanted to remain anonymous, given the origin of her mission.

Shadow moved slightly and if you strained your eyes, you could see the air ripple with her movements and then, you would catch her. Her dark hair was braided down her shoulder, hidden mostly by the dark hood that obscured her eyes. A black, ventilated mask covered the bottom half of her face and the rest of her outfit was dark. Two large curved short swords was attached to her erect back and her gloved hands were stretching in and out from her palms, revealing the slight anxiousness that flowed through her. Hidden behind her mask, she was smiling, prepping herself for a full night. Her hand quickly moved towards her left ear and pressed gently on the earpiece. Almost immediately, police chatter began to squawk from it and she turned back into the shadows, heading towards the earlier sound of screaming. Her eyes had narrowed at this point, ready for the night to begin.

 **It has been three years. One hundred and fifty-six weeks.**

Shadow was limping in the hallway of a shady hallway. The lights within the apartment complex's lobby and walkways had been long blown out from lack of care from the landlords. She knew that she could make a call and it would be fixed eventually, but she preferred it this way. She had stopped in front of a cracked door, listening to her neighbors arguing. She frantically pushed a key into the lock and twisting it, pushing it open with a loud squeak. She hurriedly entered and slammed the door behind her, letting out a huff of relief. She kicked off her shoes, but kept her mask on until she had reached the bathroom. She didn't bother flipping on the lights on her way, as she was much more at ease in the darkness. She flicked on the bathroom light on, stepping in and shutting the door behind her. She pulled off the mask with a long sigh and looked up at her reflection.

Without the concealment, she lost the persona of Shadow and became Cyan, a young secretary for a large cooperation and a thirst of danger. She pulled her hair from her braid, shaking the strands out and then assessed her face. A black circle was already appearing around her left eye and her bottom lip had been split open from a stray fist. When she rolled her shoulders back, she let out a low hiss of pain. This was going to be entertaining to explain to her supervisors at Queen Consolidated, who had already warned her multiple times that the battle wounds were not proper work attire. She rubbed her thumb under her jaw, feeling the soreness and knowing that it was going to bruise. Finally, she stripped off her clothing, revealing a large scar that etched from the right shoulder and danced down her side before ending near her rib cage. Another was in the middle of her stomach, long in length, small in width. There was a couple more pirouetting around her body, telling a story that she would never tell. She pressed two fingers to her side and grunted. The man with the crowbar from earlier in the night had gotten her good and it was going to show in the morning. She only hoped that she would be able to do her simple-minded job with the least amounts of groaning.

She shook her head, entering the dank shower and began washing the night's events off of her.

Was she proud of her night, of what she had made of herself? Would her family be proud? Both answers to those questions were an easy no. She hated how easily this came to her, playing judge, jury and executioner. She could almost hear her mother's reaction, wheezing in horror and pressing a cold cloth to the bleeding mouth of her daughter. "How could you do something like this? Cyan, oh dear." She could faintly hear the sound of her mother's cries of pain. Her father would be standing in the doorway, watching his eldest daughter. When he opened his mouth to scold her, Cyan could hear nothing. She could see his mouth moving, however, she couldn't remember the octaves of his voice. This reminiscence had left her reeling; how could she not recollect what his voice sounded like? Was it low and gruff, or was it light and playful? Cyan pressed her warming forehead to the cold tiles surrounding her. What about her sisters? Could she even bring up a picture of them in her head? How could she forget the two stars in her bleak life?

Cyan was gritting her teeth together, growling under her breath. Not only had her family left her, but the memories were slipping as well.

She slammed a fist into the wall, turning off the shower and stepping out. She shook her head, the thoughts falling from her, like the water droplets dwindling from her wet hair. Of course she remembered her family, their voices and what they looked like when they were happy, sad, mad. She was just in a bad mood, replaying the long night of the mistakes she had made tonight. When her head was clear, she would recall.

 _Those who perished tonight deserved it_. She promised herself, thinking her mantra over and over again.

They were rapists, murderers, thieves, the scum of the city. Not that she was any better, she was one of the worst. She will eventually get what was coming to her; karma always found a way. She would fall, just as the ones before her.

This wasn't a proclamation of self-pity; this was a fact.

Cyan's life was ticking, whether it would come from the hands of the repulsive men and women who surrounded her, or the ones who had stalked her family.

Her eyes shot open, quivering her head again.

She wasn't ready to think of _that_. She needed to remind herself of her mission before she could. A sinking feeling entered her stomach, almost as if the thought could bring them down upon her.

 _No._ She thought, running a hand through her hair. _He doesn't even know I'm here. I'm so close and he doesn't even realize._

Cyan grabbed the terry cloth towel hanging from the murky towel rack and wrapped herself. She stormed out, leaving watery footsteps in her wake. She made her way to her bedroom, dressing in a simple tank top and loose pants. Her bare feet padded along the wooden floors as she used the towel to rustle her hair, now walking towards the room across, empty other than the few boxes that laid. It was time for another reminder, something to push her towards her salvation. She occasionally needed this contentment, when the pain of the lives she had taken was beginning to take hold.

The room was bright with the moonlight; therefore, she didn't bother flicking the light on. She left her towel hanging on the doorknob and mechanically walked towards the first box. It sat in the middle of the room, the lid pressed closed. She pressed her lips together, sitting cross-legged and pulled the box close. It took a couple of minutes before Cyan yanked the lid open and set it aside.

 **It has been three years. One hundred and fifty-six weeks.**

Inside was manila folders, stray papers and laminated photos.

Cyan grabbed the first picture and stared at it's contents.

The first thing she noticed was the two little girls, smiling back at her. Their brunette hair was almost black and their arms were intertwined with each other. One had the blue eyes that almost mimicked Cyan's perfectly, the others was brown, the color of tree bark in the winter. Behind them was an older couple, standing near a younger Cyan. A woman had her arms around a man, her blonde hair twisted into a braid and her crystal blue eyes shining with happiness. A smile was playing on her full pink lips. The man was her polar opposite. Everything about the women was open and friendly, he had the deadly look of an assassin. You could almost see the events that had made this man. His arms were wrapped around the woman, lovingly, his arms tattooed in swirling patterns and Cyan noticed a few scars that were visible in the photo. Cyan ran her thumb over the faces, the corners of her lips turning up into a wily smile.

She couldn't measure in words how much she missed them.

This was her family, the ones who molded her into who she was before. Just seeing how happy they used to be, brought the rage bubbling back into her body. The feeling that fueled her way to clean the Glades, a small mission to train her. She wasn't doing this for the people of Starling City, nor was she fighting for the citizens of the Glades. No, she was using these excuses for human beings to train her to be stronger, to be smarter, to be more powerful than her opponent. That way when it came time, she would be able to take out the man she had moved across the country to take out. The man that haunted her dreams.

 _The man who murdered her family._

Cyan knew her father had secrets. You could tell just from peering at him that he held them within himself and would never speak out them. Almost as if you could torture him and he would still refuse. However, Cyan was going to find a way. She knew he had to have left a trail somewhere in this city. Perhaps, he had friends, associates he had made in the city he had used to live before he made a family. Someone who knew what was being hidden on their murder. She knew it was motivated, that it wasn't just a random occurrence. Something had made the man do this and she was going to find out way, right before she let her sword enter his sternum and drain his life.

Cyan shut her eyes. Her father. There was something about the way he moved, fluid, almost as if he was taught to step without making a noise. Cyan could remember her mother lecturing her father on multiple occasions for startling her and he would boast out, "You know it's not my fault."

If you looked deep enough into his amber eyes, you could see the deadliness. When she was younger, way before her sisters were born, her father would show her the proper way to hold a sword, how to swing it for her advantage. She would be perched on the porch, watching her father string an arrow into a bow and sending one after another into the bull's eye of a target. She knew he had to be taught everything he knew, but she wasn't sure on who had been his teacher. She also wasn't sure who had pressured the man that put the kill order on her family, nonetheless, she did know the name of the man who had done the slaying.

Cyan pushed the box away, deciding one picture was enough for tonight. She tossed the photo back in and placed the lid back on. She turned and moved out of the room, letting the door shut behind her. Without another thought, she headed to her bed, pulling the thick comforters around her.

Though, when she closed her eyes, she could feel the pain radiating from the long scar on her stomach. She could picture herself, covered in her own blood, tumbling to where her father was lying.

 _"Dad," Cyan croaked out, her throat dry. She was almost numb to the pain that surrounded her, adrenaline flowing through her body. She had just made it to her father, grasping his hands into her own._

 _Her father looked at her, his eyes dim of life. "This is my fault, I did this." He was whispering, almost too faint for Cyan to hear._

 _"What are you talking about, dad?" She wanted to question more, but she could tell he was growing weaker and weaker by the second. Her wound wasn't nearly as life-threatening as her father's, therefore she was able to twist her body to reach for the phone hat was teetering on the kitchen counter. "Hold on, dad, okay? I'm going to call an ambulance."_

 _His grip tightened. "No, Cyan, listen." He inhaled, the gaping hole in his stomach growing darker with the blood spilling out. "I was involved . . . in something. A—a—league more powerful than you can think. They ordered this, but the man who followed through. . . You must stay away from him. If he finds out you're alive . . ." He sucked in another breath, "You need to stay away from—,"_

Cyan's teeth were tearing through the skin in the inside of her lip, blood pooling in her mouth. Her fists had tightened and she knew an enraged look had appeared on her face. The name, the name that continued to motivate her vengeance.

Cyan opened her eyes, staring at the prickled ceiling. With a growl, she uttered, "Malcolm Merlyn."

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 **~ Author's Note ~**

Hi, I'm back! I'm sorry to say, but all my other stories will be put on hold until further notice. For a while there, I had lost every desire to write and I finally got back on my groove after binge watching tf out of Arrow, Flash and Legends of Tomorrow. I hope you like my story as I poured a lot of my heart and soul into it and if you didn't, feel free to let me know why! Thanks and until next time, I'll see you guys, when I see you.

 *** disclaimer ***

 _I own nothing from the CW shows, Legends of Tomorrow, Arrow, or the Flash, whom's characters will make an appearance in this story. All rights go to the writers, producers, directors, etc of the comics and the show. I do, however, own Cyan and whatever storyline I create for her. Stealing any or all parts of my original characters is not own plagiarism, but it is also unethical of a writer. If you call yourself an author, you can't make your own ideas._


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